A/N: I was really pumped after watching the third episode of Sherlock and had to write something. Call it a teaser. I have an idea for a longer fic, I just have to find time to write it. I hope you like this little snippet.
Sort of, but not really based on the song 'Better' by Regina Spektor.
Disclaimer: God, I wish I owned Benedict Cumberbatch. But sadly I don't.
His heart was beating so hard he thought it was about to burst out of his chest. The wind was rushing down his collar, setting his figure alight with goosebumps and at the same time, his body burned from the exertion. He couldn't remember the last time he had run so fast or so far.
In front of him he could see Sherlock's jacket streaming out behind him, his hair being torn back by the wind. John hadn't run like this since the war. It felt... freeing. But for the first time in a long time, that freedom didn't come with a large helping of guilt attached. He was finally able to admit to himself that he had felt incomplete since the stress and conflict and constant fear of war had been extracted from his life.
"Come on!" Came Sherlock's voice, high and breathless from in front of him.
Why were they still running? They would have lost the police by now, but for some reason John found himself forcing himself to keep up with Sherlock's unbelievable pace.
He almost felt disappointed when they reached Baker Street. He stumbled up the stairs after Sherlock, laughing through heaving breaths. Sherlock fumbled with the doorknob and they both fell through the door.
John's legs felt like they were on fire. His whole form felt like it was on fire, but he hadn't felt so alight in such a long time.
He slumped against the wall beside Sherlock, exhaling roughly. He could feel Sherlock's arm pressed against his and the heat radiating off Sherlock's body, as his chest quivered rapidly.
"Shouldn't you be in better shape?" Sherlock quipped, eyeing John. "Being a solider... and all that."
"You have... longer legs." John panted, putting a hand over his heart. It was beating like a drum; he could feel it pulsating through his skin.
"You look unnervingly happy," Sherlock said, pushing himself upright from the wall and turning to study John's face. "Stop smiling like that, it's embarrassing."
John could feel the stupid grin on his face. He tried to control his facial features, but they seemed to have taken on a life of their own. He stared blearily up at Sherlock's face. He was still panting. His lips were slightly parted. Between them, John could see the slightest slither of teeth, very white with a slight gap between them.
John wasn't entirely aware of moving but he felt his hand wrap around Sherlock's shirt and tug him roughly against him. The soft, moist lips took him by surprise. As did the taller man's strange compliance as his figure was pinned against John's, his crotch pressed against John's hips. He'd never been so close to another man. He'd never kissed another man-
Suddenly his mind seemed to catch up with his body. He broke away from Sherlock's mouth, gasping.
"Oh God," He said, pushing Sherlock away and hastily moving across to the opposite side of the hallway. "I'm so... so sorry. I don't know where that-
"Perfectly alright," Sherlock interjected, not turning to him. He sounded very calm. "I have had worse things shoved down my throat, I assure you."
John laughed, slightly hysterically. "Aha, yes. I'm... sure."
He didn't turn to him. He didn't hear Sherlock move behind him. John's cheeks were burning. His whole figure was burning.
He almost passed out with relief when there was a knock at the front door. He felt himself jerk.
"Ah," Sherlock croaked. He cleared his throat quickly. "That will be for you, I expect."
John turned to him, frowning. His mortification was, for a moment, forgotten. "What?"
Sherlock's cheeks were very pink, he noted. His hair was tussled. John tried to force the thought from his mind that this was probably what Sherlock would look like after sex.
Sherlock nodded at John's legs. John looked down. He felt a jolt in his stomach. "Oh." He said, hardly able to compute that he just ran through London completely unaided when a week ago he couldn't walk to the toilet without considerable pain.
He walked numbly towards the door.
"It's understandable," Sherlock said from behind him.
John paused, one hand on the doorknob. He waited, wanting Sherlock to make some remarkable deduction that would clear away the fact that they had just kissed.
"You were full of endorphins, excitement. Not to mention adrenaline," Sherlock said coolly. "That mix of sensations can create the impulse to force yourself on whatever... or whoever happens to be nearest."
John nodded. His heart sank. He may not have known Sherlock long but he had known people long enough to know when they were saying things just to make him feel better.